


Night Song (Niht Drēam)

by BashfulBunny (Aequoreavictoria)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Soldier John, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angry John, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Captain John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hinted Sexual Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Impressed Sherlock, John has an Endless Number of Endearments with Which to call Sherlock, Love, M/M, Medical, Mutual Attraction, Noble John, Older John, Omega Sherlock, Omega Sherlock POW, Protective John, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Sadistic Moran, Sherlock AU, Sherlock likes that, Soft Omegaverse, Suspense, Teen Sherlock, Tender Sex, Terrified Sherlock, Thriller, War, Worldly John, Younger Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoreavictoria/pseuds/BashfulBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battle hardened alpha John's self-discipline is tested by his overwhelming attraction to Sherlock, a young prisoner-of-war omega in need of his protection and care.</p>
<p>This story is based on a brilliant anonymous prompt from the Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme. Thank you prompter! https://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260439749#cmt260439749</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Spoils of War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/727715) by [VillainsVindication](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainsVindication/pseuds/VillainsVindication). 



> This AU is a bit of a cross between Mad Max and LOTR/Middle Earth; a post-apocalyptic Middle Earth setting. This world has modern technology but also fantasy elements like magic, Wicca and unusual people and creatures. The language spoken between John and Sherlock is Old English: please be forgiving if you are an English Lit major and find that I've used it all wrong. If you are, and feel the need to send me corrections on the use of Old English, I would welcome it.

“Back off ya slig! You’ll get a chance at a little fun later; if you’re lucky!” 

Captain John Watson heard the rough order and a scuffle outside his tent followed by a grunt, the sort emitted when someone is struck with a kick or a punch, followed by a derisive laugh.

John cursed his bad luck at being ordered to visit this particular God-forsaken outpost of the war. It wasn’t on his usual field-hospital circuit but the camp’s regular doctor had been abruptly discharged from the army on the day John was to depart from headquarters; discharged for conduct unbefitting an officer John had heard. This hadn’t surprised him. Captain Moran had been a sadistic bastard whose reprehensible behaviour had obviously finally caught up with him. But it was as a result of Moran’s dismissal that John found himself in the middle of a wasteland at the outermost edge of the war, stuck there until replacement medical services could be flown in.

He groaned and rolled onto his side. He was exhausted from a 16 hour shift in the hospital tent. The last thing he wanted was to be kept awake by fighting among the enlisted men drinking and carousing outside his tent. They were a crude and undisciplined lot; there was a concerning lack of order in these outposts far from the centre of operations. He rubbed his shoulder tiredly; if they kept it up, he’d put a stop to it himself, he was in no mood to tolerate loud drunks. 

It was at that moment that he heard something different, or imagined he did; a small sound of distress… a whimper or a gasp… Suddenly alert, he strained, listening for it again. It had sounded child-like… which was impossible; there were no children for hundreds of miles in any direction. Had the sound been made by an animal then? 

But even as he sat up to grasp his rifle in preparation to investigate the door of his tent was pushed open and a filthy brute of a soldier filled the entrance. 

Before John could question why he was there, the man, whose badge indicated he was a sergeant, spoke, his voice surly, “We found this pretty piece on patrol. The Major said to give it to you. It’s a reward, for saving his butt-boy, Matheson. Moran always liked a bit of fun. Major reckoned you’d be the same. If you can make him sing, so much the better.” With that he raised an arm, lifting a small figure by the back of the neck, displaying it to John and grinning unpleasantly with blackened teeth.

John no longer needed to ask questions: a wave of scent had caught up with the soldier and his catch, settling around them like mist in John’s tent. John, a full blooded and un-bonded alpha was struck forcefully by the unmistakable, compelling scent of a young omega; an omega in heat, or very close to it and, John sniffed again, a virgin. The second odor that struck him, as vile as the first was sweet, was the dark stench of aroused alphas, a number of them, of varying social status, eager to get to the young omega first and prepared to fight for the opportunity. John reacted instinctively; adopting a rigid stance, shoulders back and chest out, prepared to defend or attack, which ever was required first. 

The limp captive, held aloft by the soldier, was alive although it didn’t appear so at first glance. But the omega’s scent told John it was, as did the sound it emitted when the soldier shook it; a small involuntary vocalization of fear or pain. It was the same noise that had puzzled John earlier, when he’d first heard it. 

John assessed the situation; he wanted no part of what was being suggested of course, he was an honourable soldier and a medical doctor, but he would have to accept the sergeant’s proposition if he was going to be able to assist the poor creature being dangled in front of him. 

He said coldly, “Set your capture down and leave. And take the other curs with you. I like my privacy.”

At John’s order, the sergeant smirked and dropped his catch to the floor, then, before John could prevent him, kicked the small figure across the tent. With a gasp, the omega landed at John’s feet where it curled up and lay still. At John’s furious exclamation, the soldier laughed and turned on his heel, departing the tent.  


Resisting the strong urge to follow the sergeant and administer the harsh discipline he deserved − he would be dealt with appropriately later John promised himself angrily − instead he set his rifle aside and fell to one knee beside the injured omega.

He was reaching out with a soothing hand to a matted tangle of dark curls when a second soldier lurched through his tent door. At a glance John could see the Alpha was grossly sexually aroused, drunk with it, eyelids half lowered over unfocused eyes, his mouth slack and his hands restlessly grasping at his crotch. 

John wasn’t usually a swearing man but now he shot his head up to snarl at the soldier, “Get the fuck out of my quarters, Private!”

“You ain’t a soldier, you’re just the doc,” the man muttered, refusing to step back, “what’re you gonna do to make me?”

That was a mistake; for even before he’d finished his sentence the intruder found himself bowed backward, almost off his feet, caught in a punishing arm lock with a furious John hissing in his ear, “That’s right. I’m a doctor,” John deliberately wrenched the man’s arm up his back causing him to squeal in pain, “… and that means I have a lot of latitude in how I exercise my duty. And right now I see you as a direct threat to my patient.” He wrenched the arm up once more and growled, “I will kill you if you aren’t out of my sight within three seconds!” John dragged the man backward to the entrance of his tent and flung him to the ground outside. He then pulled his sidearm from its holster, he was never without it, and took aim at the man’s crotch − a clear shot as the soldier was on his back with his legs splayed − and began to count aloud, “Three, two, on…” 

The private scrambled desperately to his hands and knees and crawled as fast as he could into the darkness. John watched him leave and then scanned the area for any other alphas who may have been hovering while their mate tried his luck. If there had been any, they were gone now, he noted grimly. He turned into his tent once more, secured the door and, finding the omega had disappeared, went to his cot and squatted beside it. He called out softly, “Hey little one, I’d like you to come out now… the soldiers are gone, it’s just me here now and I won’t hurt you, I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

The only sound John could hear was terrified raspy breathing from far under the cot; the omega likely had a lung infection… in addition to other obvious injuries. 

“You are sick and hurt. Let me help you. You have my word I won’t harm you.”

His coaxing was met with no response.

“Come to me, little one. I want to help you.”

John listened to the laboured breathing. The omega seemed to be trying to listen to him for it held its breath each time John spoke. 

“I can stop your pain,” he promised.

The silence drew out, only short, shallow breaths could be heard, before a strangely gruff voice, hoarse and low asked, “You are… ælfwine?”

He was certain he’d heard the question correctly but John’s brain drew a blank. A what? He scanned his somewhat scanty knowledge of languages, grasping for the meaning of the expression… it was vaguely familiar… he’d heard something like it a long time ago…

It took a few seconds but… of course! He remembered his grandmother using a similar expression when he was a boy staying with her in her lake country home.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, “yes, I am a friend of the elves!” 

The creature under the bed was quiet again apart from its increasingly laboured breathing, possibly considering the truthfulness of John’s assertion.

John struggled to remember the few words he knew of his grandmother’s language, “I am a rihtlæce, a doctor. I want to help you. Níedhelp, small one.”

The breathing began to ease. John heard a pleading whisper, “Iċ i firmette, Ælfwine, speak the singaþ for me…” The whisper then faded into silence and the breathing stopped. 

“No!” 

This small being would not die if John could have anything to do with it! He lifted the cot in one quick motion and scooped up the still form beneath it. He kicked the bed back into position and lay his unconscious patient down. He began emergency procedures; checking airways, heart rate, blood pressure… looking for signs of external bleeding, internal bleeding, concussion... He grasped for the medical kit on the top of his pack and tore it open; pulling out oxygen and a fluid drip. Working at lightning speed, easy for him after many years of treating the injured in the worst of conditions, he had everything necessary in place and attached to his patient within seconds. 

Once all was done that could be for the moment, John sat down on the cot holding an oxygen mask over the nose and mouth of the now breathing but still unconscious omega. With one hand on the mask, he pressed the fingers of his other hand against the inside of the thin wrist lying on the blanket and studied his patient for the first time. 

There was no doubt that the creature he was treating was a human; not an elf as he had begun to assume from their brief conversation. Unsure of his patient’s gender initially, his quick examination had confirmed that he was a boy, not a girl as the delicate bone and muscle structure and the fineness of the skin−where skin was visible between streaks of dirt and, in some places, blood − had suggested.

John probed his mystery patient’s ankle carefully; it was swollen and twisted, certainly sprained, if not broken. The omega was severely dehydrated too; this was the likely cause of unconsciousness and the racing heartbeat. He was also extremely thin; John added malnourished to the list of diagnoses. 

As the seconds passed, an unfamiliar emotion began to steal over John. Of all the men, women and children, military or civilian, that he had treated, operated on, cured, or saved, somehow it was becoming increasingly important to him, more so than it ever had been, that this one boy, this barely-alive creature beneath his hands, should live. He sat in stillness staring down at the youth, willing him not to give in to his injuries and illness. He had a sense that for this patient, medical science would not be the determining factor between life and death; that something else was needed. The sensation was so strong that almost without realizing it, he began to do something he hadn’t done in many years; he began to pray. He prayed not for safe passage from this world into the next that the youth had asked of him, but instead for the boy’s life to be saved. Silently he recited the heartfelt request to Eallwealdend, the omnipotent God of his grandmother’s conviction, and too, to his beloved ealdmóder herself. If anyone would hear his prayer it would be her. He smiled. His certainty grew as he repeated the not-forgotten words that his grandmother had taught him, into the night like a silent song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossery  
> ælfwine – friend of the elves  
> ealdmóder – grandmother  
> Eallwealdend − ruler of all, the omnipotent God  
> Iċ i firmette – I am begging  
> níedhelp − help in need or help in trouble  
> rihtlæce− physician or doctor  
> singaþ – charms or chants


	3. Chapter 3

John, observing the youth and monitoring his vital signs, knew the moment that he regained consciousness. John remained motionless and waited. The omega stirred slightly, turning his head to one side, instinctively trying to dislodge the oxygen mask. When the mask didn’t loosen, his eye lids flickered open. At the sight of John above him, looming large and shadowed in the dimness of the tent, he shrank back against the blankets with a terrified sound, his eyes widening with fear and his slender body stiffening. He clutched at the mask with long fingers, trying to pull it off.

“Nō. Be still, Ælfscíene.” John ordered firmly. “Do not fight me.”

The youth froze and stared up at John. Tears gathered in his eyes.

“Nō, nō small one, I’m not going to hurt you.” John’s tone softened. “I know I seem threatening but I’m not… I’m just a doctor trying to help you. If you struggle you might hurt yourself and I don’t want that.” 

John supposed ruefully that he did look intimidating. He was well past his youth now; his hair sprinkled with grey and the lines on his face beginning to deepen. His expression too, for the most part, was grim; the result of too many long shifts spent in a war-zone operating tent with too little respite. And, although he had showered earlier, he hadn’t bothered to shave, so a shadow of facial hair was probably adding to his forbidding appearance.

The youth continued to stare up at him. He blinked rapidly trying to dispel the tears, but one or two escaped and slid down into his matted hair. He sniffed and coughed weakly.

John’s expression was kind. “Fyrhtne, small one, frightened of me?” 

The youth gave a slight nod. 

“If I could leave you alone, Ælfscíene, I would, but it isn’t safe for me to do so.” 

At John’s words, the youth panicked again, but this time likely from remembering his experiences earlier with the sergeant and his company. He shook his head wildly and struggled to sit upright, knocking the mask away and clutching at John. “Nō, Fierdrinc! Nō! Iċ i firmette, do not leave me alone!”

“Shh, shh! It’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.” John eased the boy back down onto the bed and although he hadn’t intended to, concerned it would only frighten him further, he impulsively put out a soothing hand to stroke the boy’s forehead.

His patient closed his eyes but his struggling had produced a fit of coughing and he gasped for air. “Iċ i firmette, Ælfric, wæter, iċ i bidde!”

John reached for a bottle of water. “Of course, here is wæterdrinc.”

“Nō! Mere, Iċ i firmette!”

John was at a loss. “Lake water? What is it? Iċ i ne understande…”

“Yése, lacu, wæter!” The youth’s words were lost in another spasm of dry coughing.

There were no lakes or pools in the dry wasteland they were encamped in. The only thing close to it would be a bathtub. Certain he was understanding the boy’s pleas correctly, John detached the IV drip, gathered him up and turned to carry him into the tent’s main sleeping quarters. There was a full bath there, not that John had used it himself, but he’d noted it when he arrived. Moran seemed to have secured luxuries for himself beyond those available in any other camp John had seen, including a full bathroom and bedroom. John hadn’t used either; he preferred the shower and cot in the anteroom for his temporary quarters. The more distance from Moran the better, any thought of the man only made him angry. 

But now, he thrust open the door of the bath room with a booted foot and, keeping a firm arm around the fragile body he was cradling, bent over the tub to turn the taps on full.

He swung around to lock the door before kneeling beside the tub. The injured omega had gone limp again, eyes closed, his blood and dirt-streaked cheek pale against the dark khaki of John's T-shirt. John pressed a hasty finger to the pulse at his neck but to his relief he found it improved; steadier and slower than it had been earlier.

The tub was filling slowly; water was at a premium in these dry lands so the pressure was low. While he waited, John turned his attention to the youth's clothing. He was wearing a robe-like garment made of light fabric. John had pulled it partly away from his body earlier in order to check for injuries. He began to unwind the rest of it now, not wanting to add any more dirt to the bath than what was already on the boy himself. The robe could be washed later.

The omega was indeed slender and finely formed. But perhaps not starved as John had assumed earlier, rather, just of a naturally slight build. There were no ribs standing out on his bruised chest, which was heaving from the effort of breathing−John was not exactly sure why this was so, but the strain on the boy's body was evident−perhaps it was a chest infection but the symptoms weren't quite right… 

Still holding the boy with one arm, John examined his body for open wounds, he had done so quickly before but wanted to be certain he had none other than a small cut above one delicately arched eyebrow; infection from an uncleansed wound, even a small one, could kill him in his present condition. Also, John had done a cursory physical examination of the omega for evidence of a sexual assault earlier, he had found none but he wanted to do a further check to reassure himself that the soldiers who had captured the boy hadn't abused him in that manner. 

He stripped the last remnants of cloth away from the youth's body and to his surprise John found he was not the immature adolescent that he had first thought. Small and delicate certainly, very much so, and sexually uninitiated, but not immature; he was a fully developed omega, probably in his late teens. 

As focused as he was on providing medical care and despite his years of professional practice as a physician, John was disconcerted to find that he was not immune to the youth’s innocent beauty or his potent scent, even stronger now that the dusty robe had been removed. Before he could suppress it, rich alpha desire flared and he felt his body respond to the beautiful creature in his arms. He drew a breath and damped it down, reprimanding himself sternly as he lifted his unconscious patient over the side of the tub. He lowered the youth into the water, submersing him up to his chin while supporting his head with an arm behind his neck. 

The effect of the water on the youth was startling. His breathing eased within seconds. With a soft sigh he turned his face to rest against John's bicep where John felt the light puff of air as he exhaled. John thought he caught a soft murmur of the word léodwynn, or home, followed by a murmured, “Iċ i þance."

John smiled and stroked his thumb across the youth's cheek, bathing dirt and blood away with drops of warm water, "You are welcome, myn lykyng, very welcome." The term of endearment slipped out without John noticing, but it caused the semi-conscious youth to nuzzle John’s arm with his cheek and sigh once more.

John, enchanted by this, raised his fingers to the youth's face again; wiping away dirt as though from a damaged but infinitely precious painting. He hardly noticed that his motions had become as much caresses as simple washing; awed and reverent as much as healing. 

John cleaned the youth's face and then swirled water through the matted tangles of his hair until it flowed freely; waving around his head in a darkly shining halo. As much in a soft trance as his patient, he worked his way down the youth's arms with small strokes, finally reaching his hands and long thin fingers. 

As John grasped the youth's fingers between his own, he was unexpectedly startled out of his reverie. He raised them from the water to stare at them. Extraordinary! Full syndactyly… He looked quickly to the youth's toes for confirmation; sure enough, they too were unmistakably webbed. 

The omega, feeling the loss of John's comforting stroking, for John was now motionless and staring down at him in surprise, opened his eyes. When he did so, John experienced a second surprise in as many minutes as the youth’s startlingly brilliant, clear blue eyes met his own. They shuttered closed again quickly but not before John had seen their semi-lunar folds, or third eyelids; two protective translucent membranes, commonly found in marine mammals… and very occasionally, also in humans.

John exhaled the breath he'd been holding to prompt softly, "Leifling, open your eyes for me again. It is safe, I promise."

The youth did not respond initially, afraid to do as John asked, but obeyed finally; opening his eyes and raising them to look into John's. 

John did not let go of him, but sank back on his heels. He said in wonderment, "You are Simarine."

The youth, watching him carefully, nodded.

John hesitated, "But I understood the Simarine had been…" 

The omega lowered his face to stare down into the water. His response, when it came, was barely audible, "Yése, … but a few of us survived."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossery:  
> Ælfric – strong elf  
> Ælfscíene − beautiful sprite or elf  
> fierdrinc − warrior soldier  
> Iċ i firmette – I am begging, please  
> Iċ i þance – I give thanks  
> lacu – stream, pool, pond  
> leifling – darling (Afrikaans)  
> léodwynn – home joy, the joy that comes from being among one's own people  
> mere – lake, pond, pool, cistern  
> myn lykyng − my liking, my heart’s desire; the one I delight in, the one who gives me pleasure


	4. Chapter 4

John could hardly process what he was hearing. He knew of the recent massacre of the Simarine at the Sidesan Lakes. It had been horrific, even by the standards of an already bloody war. A disenfranchised faction of the enemy’s army, determined to access the region’s most precious resource, water, had, unthinkably, attacked the guardians of the lakes, the Simarine. The Simarine had had a skilled defense force but, protected under a seemingly secure treaty, they had been surprised by the attack and overwhelmed. 

After the massacre, allied reconnaissance of the region could locate no survivors. The Sidesan Lakes, the source of life-giving water for thousands of civilians, managed so carefully by the Simarine for centuries, had been found dry and the formerly lush vegetation surrounding them replaced with sand and dust. 

The Simarine had been renowned in the region as peacemakers; dedicated to protecting the Sidesan Lakes and the surrounding woods for the use and benefit of all. They were as at home in the water as they were on land due to their unusual adaptations of syndactyly for fast swimming and specialized eyelids which protected their excellent under-water vision. The decimation of this unique human population and the precious ecosystem they inhabited was one of the worst atrocities of the war to date.

Now however, contrary to anyone’s knowledge, it was clear that there had been at least one survivor of the terrible event…

John observed the youth closely; already his skin was smoother and lighter than it had been earlier. In the restorative water it taken on a faintly opalescent sheen, reminiscent of fish scales − a suggestion only − to an unwitting observer the slight shimmer could easily have been taken for a trick of the light. John noticed it, of course. He had never met a Simarine but was familiar with their biological profile. Now, as he looked down at the exquisite creature emerging from the murky bath water, he thought with awe that no text book description or image could have communicated the extraordinary beauty of the youth in whose presence he now found himself. 

As John watched him, he saw the youth’s mouth tremble slightly and, although it was difficult to say for certain, what he thought were tears on his cheeks. With a gentle hand, John cupped the omega’s chin and tipped his face up towards his own. “You must be a very special person to have survived such a traumatic event and traveled so far from your home,” he smiled and stroked a tear away with his thumb. “What is your name?” 

“I am called Shærlock… but,” the youth’s gaze dropped shyly before lifting again to meet John’s, “I… liked it when you called me… Ælfscíene…” 

John’s smile widened, “…and I am called John Watson, but, leifling, I must say I liked it when you called me Ælfric…”

A faint blush appeared on the youth’s cheeks but this time he held John’s gaze. John gazed back in fascination until suddenly he became aware the youth was shivering and said hastily, “I’m sorry, leifling, you are cold! Let’s finish your bath and then, if you will allow me, I will bind your ankle for you.”

Sherlock nodded and relaxed back into the curve of John’s arm. John turned the hot water tap on to warm up the cooling bath water and resumed bathing his patient. He ghosted his hand over Sherlock’s bruised chest with light fingers, watching his patient’s face closely for signs of pain that might indicate his ribs were cracked or broken. Satisfied they weren’t, next he probed the youth’s abdomen gently, looking for tender spots and he touched his hand to his delicate penis, checking as carefully as he could for signs of injury. The youth’s breath hitched slightly but he seemed to feel no discomfort at John’s touch. Relieved, John then stroked his fingers between the omega’s buttocks and thighs, to check for injury, but also to gauge the progress of his heat. He steeled himself against the flare of excitement that this action brought him; having anticipated it based on his body’s response to the youth earlier. This time at John’s intimate touch, Sherlock gasped and lurched in surprise. He drew his legs up sharply, wincing in pain from his injured ankle as he did so, and pulled away, staring up at John with an expression of alarm. 

“Hush, small one,” John soothed, “It is normal for an omega in your condition to feel so. Your traumatic experience today has likely delayed your heat for now, but it will return. It is not your first?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nō,” he whispered huskily. “But so strong…” he lifted frightened eyes to John’s, “What will I do?”

John smiled reassuringly, “Nothing, Ælfscíene. Trust me to protect you.” 

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears at this assertion and when he responded, his words tore at John’s heart. “Why do you not let me die, Ælfric? I am a danger to you.”

John, by now focusing his attention lower, paused in his careful rinsing of Sherlock’s small feet and complicated toes to ask, “Do I seem to you like a man who prefers to avoid danger, liefling?”

Sherlock, now tired, rested back against the back of the bath tub with his eyes closed and murmured, “Nō, Ælfric.”

“That’s right, myn lykyng. In fact, I find that danger prefers to avoid me.” John had removed his side-arm and stripped off his T-shirt to avoid getting them wet and was lifting Sherlock from the tub and wrapping him in a towel when he murmured this toward his ear. He was rewarded with a small smile and a damp, soft cheek pressed against his chest.

John carried his clean, towel-wrapped bundle from the bathroom to the bedroom. As much as he didn’t like to be in it, the bedroom was the most comfortable place in his quarters for his patient to rest and the most convenient in which to treat him. He made a slight detour to the anteroom to collect his medical kit and his rifle before carrying his patient to the bed. He did not underestimate the aggression of the alphas he had seen and scented earlier. Sherlock was at very great risk, as he was aware. John strengthened his hold on the young omega; no one was getting close enough to this beautiful creature to harm him. John would make sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossery  
> Sidesan – charms or magical influences (ǣlven)


	5. Chapter 5

“I’d like to give you something to stop the pain before I bind your ankle, would you let me, Ælfscíene?”

Sherlock searched John’s face, his expression puzzled.

“Fótwærc… níedhelp?” John struggled for the words. Sherlock might not be fluent in modern English, but his knowledge of Old English was far superior to John’s.

“Séfte?” Sherlock queried.

“Yes, leifling, it will make you soft and sleepy and without pain; wærc ne.”

“Yése, Ælfric.” 

Sherlock was wearing one of John’s T-shirts and nestled in his sleeping bag which John had un-zipped and lay atop the bed. John wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just placed Sherlock between the bed sheets; there was no reason not to, for the bed was freshly made up, but he had had the irresistible desire to put Sherlock in his own sleeping bag – there would be time enough later to think about why he might feel so − Sherlock had had a drink of water but he’d had nothing to eat for the time being. Food could wait until the ankle and the forehead were taken care of, John reasoned.

Sherlock watched as John prepared a small injection of morphine for him and obediently exposed his arm when John touched it. To John’s relief Sherlock gave no sign of distress at the injection, he kept his stunning aquamarine eyes fixed unwaveringly on John. The colour of his eyes was that of clear lake on a summer day mused John as he wiped Sherlock’s arm with an antiseptic soaked, cotton wool ball and stuck a plaster on it. The Sidesan Lakes were said to have been a very beautiful blue colour, perhaps Sherlock’s eyes were the same shade…

The morphine took effect on Sherlock almost immediately. John was able to immobilize his swollen ankle and clean the cut above his eye without causing him pain, bandaging both thoroughly. By the time he had finished Sherlock’s eyes had closed and his slender body was lax. John smiled down at him and drew the too-large T-shirt up over one of his pale shoulders. He pulled the sides of the sleeping bag close around him. Sleep would be the best remedy for him now. 

He was rising from his seat on the edge of the bed when Sherlock unexpectedly roused to question anxiously, “Fierdrinc, you are leaving?” 

“Nǣfre leifling, I’m just putting things away.” 

“Iċ bidde …” There was a small tremor to Sherlock’s voice that John didn’t miss. 

“Áforhtian, small one?” 

“Yése…”

John was off-duty for 24 hours. Clean up could wait. He brought his rifle to within reach of the bed, loosened his sidearm holster and pulled his boots off. He turned off the light and stretched out beside Sherlock. 

Lying down, he expected to feel some of his previous exhaustion return, but to his surprise he found that he was no longer tired, rather, he felt alert and invigorated. He was considering how this could be when he heard a rustling beside him. He turned his head to smile into the darkness as he felt Sherlock in the sleeping bag press up against him with a small sigh. 

It was this sweet sigh that was John’s undoing. The spell that had been weaving its quiet way around him all evening suddenly took firm hold. Reason abandoned him and he found it impossible not to give in to sudden impulse. He rolled onto his side and with an answering sigh, pulled the slight figure bundled in his sleeping bag close to his chest. 

How right this felt! With just this simple action, John was stunned to find himself awash with alpha sensations the strength of which he’d never experienced; fiery heat coursed through him, pooling with throbbing tension in his belly and his chest tightened painfully with emotion. His senses flared and physical sensation overwhelmed his consciousness; the tickle of a soft curl of hair against his forehead he felt down to his toes; under his hand, the feel of slippery fabric over fragile flesh and bone swallowed the memory of all he’d felt before it and the thumping of his circulation in his ears deafened him. Far too late to stop it, he felt Sherlock’s fresh, sweet scent, already familiar and dear, overtake him and imprint itself, unchallenged, onto his soul…

So this was the way of it, was it? In an instant, John’s world changed; his mind and body − his life itself− were no longer his own; irrevocably, henceforth they were this small omega’s to do with as he wished. Protection, provision, pleasure; whatever this precious being required, John would fulfil. And gladly. The universe or perhaps the Gods themselves had brought new purpose to John’s life with the appearance of Sherlock. For John, the realization was pure happiness. He smiled into the darkness again and pulled Sherlock closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossery  
> Áforhtian − take fright; be very much afraid; to tremble with fear  
> Fótwærc – foot pain  
> Iċ bidde − please (i.e. please and thank you)  
> Nǣfre − never  
> Séfte – sleepy  
> Wærc – pain


	6. Chapter 6

“Ælfric?”

“Hmmmm?”

“I cannot sleep.”

“Why not, heartsweet?”

“Iċ i sáre.”

“You are anxious, sad? Tell me, leifling.”

“It is the lakes. I fear they will not reappear.”

John stroked Sherlock’s now clean, soft curls back from his forehead and murmured, “I’m not sure I know what you mean…”

“When the armies arrived on that day...” Sherlock’s voice shook slightly, “The Elder Council made the decision to hide the lakes. It was right to do so; it is what must be done under such circumstances. It has been done before in our history but then the knowledge of how to bring the lakes back was retained by the people who survived. I fear that that is not the case this time; the lakes may be gone forever.”

“I’m sorry with all my heart, leifling but no survivors were found… an aide team searched but there was no one...” John tightened his arm around Sherlock, and brushed his mouth to his ear, wanting to offer what comfort he could.

“But Ælfric, you do not know; others did live… I found their trail, iċ i æfterfylge, I followed them − to go with them, of course, but they were too far ahead of me. I could not catch up to them before they reached the firgenbeorg.”

“There were other survivors and they went to the mountains?”

“Yése, the Dúnælf came to our assistance. They were too late to fight beside us but they took those who survived to the mountains. But they did not know that I too lived and after they entered the caves they closed the way behind them. N’ iċ befylge. I could not follow.” Sherlock’s shoulders shook and his voice dissolved into tears.

John’s heart rent in two at Sherlock’s grief. He drew himself up over him, pressing against him and growling anxiously; frustrated that there was nothing he could do to alleviate his pain. Even as he acted, John knew it was an alpha response to its distressed omega, not that of a doctor to his patient, but he was powerless to stop it. 

The effect of John’s reaction on Sherlock was like that of a tranquilizer; he stopped weeping and stilled, breathing shallowly, distracted. He was unaware in his distraught state that he was submitting to a dominant alpha’s commands but John noted it and marveled at the powerful forces entwining them both. 

“Breathe, small one. Breathe,” John urged. He splayed a hand over Sherlock’s chest and prompted deeper breaths until they had both relaxed.

After a minute of slow breathing, Sherlock drew a shuddering sigh and said, “Iċ i geáreorden. I would go around the mountain and join them on the other side.”

“That was a courageous decision, heartsweet…”

“I knew I could find the way; iċ i scholasticus.” Sherlock turned his head to look at John to confirm that he understood the Latin word. “Iċ physicist primae, aquaedisciplinae, iċ … inventum...” he struggled to translate a word for John, “graphimatis sé lacu? I am the… scientiae optumus of my people,” he added with solemn dignity. 

Sherlock didn’t see John’s delighted smile behind him. John touched the top of Sherlock’s head reverently. His precious omega was obviously brilliant as well as courageous. Sherlock’s knowledge of languages was impressive − he was picking up John’s modern English at an astonishing rate and his Latin was flawless. Of course he would also be the best hydrographer that existed! John’s heart swelled with pride. 

“I found the way easily enough, but…” Sherlock’s voice became small again, “After a few days of travel I became… ill…” he faltered, too shy to speak of his heat to John, “and needed water… that’s when the heremenn, the soldiers and the dogs, found me and chased me…” he shuddered.

John hugged him and nuzzled his neck in comfort, “But you have me now, Ælfscíene, and so you are safe.” He stroked Sherlock’s smooth cheek. “I think you should eat something, my heartsweet. Warm soup will calm you, help you to sleep. Will you have some?”

“Yése, Ælfric.”

“Good. I am going to the next room, just for a few moments. I will be right back. You will still hear and see me, alright?”

“Nō, Ælfric.”

John stopped, surprised and then grinned. “I must take you with me, Ælfscíene? He chuckled as he saw Sherlock’s sober nod. “Alright.” Turning on the night-table light, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock in the sleeping bag and lifted him to carry him to the anteroom. Here, with Sherlock still held firmly in one arm, he pulled a Hotpack of rations from his kit and returned to the bedroom. He re-settled Sherlock, whose bright eyes had followed every movement and set the soup to heat.

That done John turned to study Sherlock’s face. Seeing no sign of readiness for sleep, he suggested, “Tell me about the Dúnælf, the Mountain Elves, leifling. The Simarine have a special relationship with them?”

Sherlock nodded. “Pæt ælfcynn are our allies. We are the guardians of the lakes and the Dúnælf are our guardians. It is a cooperative arrangement. We are few in number and must devote the majority of our time to science; the lakes are fragile and require constant monitoring. We have a skilled defence force, the Dúnælf train them, but it is a small group. The Dúnælf stand with us when needed. They are fierce fighters; like you Ælfric, although not so strong.” Sherlock reached with a shy hand to touch one of John’s muscular arms.

Sherlock’s touch, as soft as a night moth’s, set John’s entire body abuzz with pleasure. He smiled at Sherlock, “I’m glad I please you, little one. You are no longer frightened of me?”

Sherlock’s cheeks pinkened and he lowered his eyes. “Nō, Ælfric.”

John, watching this, was enraptured. “How beautiful you are, Ælfscíene.” He added softly, “That means you please me also.”

Sherlock’s blush deepened.

He hated to break the spell, but to ease Sherlock’s self-consciousness, John said, “I think your soup is ready. Would you eat some now?”

Sherlock nodded so John scooped a spoonful from the foil packet and, holding a hand under it to catch drips, he offered it to him. 

Looking up at him uncertainly, Sherlock asked, “Do your people not feed themselves, Ælfric?”

John grinned. “Sometimes not. For example, at times like this.”

Sherlock accepted the soup with delicate grace, gifting John with the pleasure of watching the spoon slide between his perfect lips to be licked clean and returned.

“It is… ah… different,” Sherlock said, then added quickly, “But I thank you for it.”

John chuckled in amusement, “I feel the same way about army rations, leifling. But please don’t think all of my peoples’ food tastes as bad!”

They repeated the action until Sherlock had finished about half of the soup. As John had predicted, before long, the warm food had relaxed him enough to feel sleepy again. He had just swallowed a spoonful when he closed his eyes and leaned into John, asleep before John could lower him to his pillow. 

John watched him for a long moment as he slept. Then, when he’d drunk his fill, he bent to press his lips lightly to Sherlock’s hair before turning off the light and stretching out himself. He drew Sherlock close and rested, listening to the night sounds of the camp, alert for anything that might indicate a threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> æfterfylgian – to follow after, pursue  
> aquaedisciplinae − hydrology  
> dúnælf − mountain elves  
> firgenbeorg – mountain  
> geáreorden – to decide  
> graphimatis sé lacu− mapping the lakes  
> heremenn – soldiers  
> ic I sáre − I am sad; in mental pain, grieving  
> inventum − invented  
> pæt ælfcynn − the race of Elves, Elven kind  
> physicist primae − the first scientist  
> scholasticus − scholar  
> scientiae optumus − best scientist


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but chapter eight is longer and I will be posting it next Tuesday. :-)  
> 

The camp was silent. It hadn’t been a sound that disturbed him… but John was alert, awoken by something. Then he felt it, a soft brushing against his cheek… he opened his eyes in the semi-darkness to find Sherlock’s face near his own, his expression a study in fascination as he stroked his long fingers lightly over the beard growth on John’s chin. 

Sherlock saw John’s eyes open and withdrew his hand sharply, his facial expression full of anxious regret, “þu you geárest, Ælfric! I did not mean to wake you!”

“Hey, it’s alright,” said John, his voice low and gruff from sleep. He roused himself and turned to face Sherlock, resting his head on one bent elbow, “You can check me out whenever you want to,” he said with a slow smile 

“Check you out?” questioned Sherlock, his expression of concern easing. 

“It means to study or watch.” 

“Ah,” said Sherlock. He explained, “I was curious about the hair on your face,” he looked bashful and added, “I…I should not have touched you, but...” he paused, “I wanted to.” 

This admission was music to John’s ears but he didn’t say so. 

Sherlock continued, “We Simarine do not have hair on our skin. Hair such as yours greatly impedes swimming.”

John reached with a lazy hand to stoke a long curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “And yet you have such lovely hair on your head, leifling.”

The expression of fascination was returning to Sherlock’s face, “You are large and strong Ælfric, and yet soft in your ways.”

The corners of John’s eyes crinkled, he said, “Sometimes not, but always with you, heartsweet, always.” He reached to draw Sherlock’s quilted bag snugly around him to ward off the chill of the night and asked, “You are wide awake again, Ælfscíene?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, “I require little sleep, Ælfric, but I wish to stay here beside you while you sleep.” 

Something in his tone caught at John’s emotions and he said impulsively, “You have had such difficult and frightening experiences youngling, ic i ámundae; let me care for you and keep you safe from now on. It gives me pleasure to do so.”

“The elders would thank you, Ælfric.” Even as he said it, Sherlock’s mouth trembled and his eyes filled with tears.

“Hush!” John exclaimed, regretting his impulsive words. His voice full of concern, he explained, “It is the way of trauma; pain catches us when we least expect it.” He sat up and drew Sherlock onto his lap, sleeping bag and all. “Would you like to tell me what happened? How you came to be separated from your people?” He nuzzled the top of Sherlock’s head with his lips. “You will find that I am a good listener.”

Sherlock, nodding, pressed against John and drew a shaky breath. He began, “A few days before the attack I was asked by the council to survey environmental conditions on the far side of the largest lake. Surveys like it are frequent. It was a long journey, two days, perhaps more, away from the city.” Sherlock lifted his unusual eyes to John’s who touched his cheek encouragingly. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and parted his lips involuntarily in response to John’s touch but he continued his story, “I usually work alone, although the council does not always approve. I prefer it,” he said. “The first two days went well; the water and the atmosphere were clear, but at dawn on the third day something went wrong. A mist emerged from the lake such as I’d never seen before. At first of course, I did not know what was happening. But observing the signs at the water’s edge, within a short time, I knew the only explanation was that the lake was disappearing, and therefore something terrible must have happened.” Sherlock’s words faltered. “I returned to the city as quickly as I could. But by the time I drew near my home the mist and the lake along with it had gone… The city was in ruin, there wasn’t a living person remaining… my parents, the council, all were dead…” Sherlock wilted in John’s arms, overwhelmed with grief and sobbed.

John’s heart broke under the weight of this small omega’s pain. He held him tightly, murmuring comfort to him and stroking his slender back. John knew the tears were necessary and didn’t attempt to stop them. All he could do was protect and comfort Sherlock in this time of vulnerability, ensuring his safety while he grieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossery  
> ic i ámundae − I am protecting or defending  
> þu you geárest – you will pardon me?  
> youngling – young one


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock’s tears soaked through John’s T-shirt as he cried inconsolably. Not wanting to take his arms from Sherlock or disturb him by rising, John reached to pull open a drawer of the night stand. He looked down hopefully for something to mop tears with but froze at what he saw instead: studded, black leather straps appointed with dull silver buckles, worn from use, lay in a tangle alongside several pairs of handcuffs, some of which were very small, and a pile of folded, heavy, black fabric − almost certainly hoods.

John drew his hand away from the drawer as if stung and bit out an expletive. His hold on Sherlock tightened painfully. Moran of course, would have such a revolting stash! Visons of the man’s activities in the very room they were in caused John’s vision blur with rage. No wonder he had instinctively avoided the place! Everything about Moran, especially this, was antithetical to all that John stood for.

“The bastard!” John’s exclamation was followed by a fierce growl. 

Sherlock, who had gone still and quiet at John’s initial outburst, now began to shake in distress. “Fierdrinc, what is wrong?!”

“Stay here luflíc, I will be back in a minute. I’m sorry, but it is necessary that I do this.” John stowed a trembling, disoriented Sherlock in the puffy folds of his sleeping bag and, rifle in hand, pulled the entire drawer and its contents from the stand and strode from the room. At the outer door of the tent he flung the drawer, still full of its offensive contents, as far away into the darkness as he could. The camp dogs could drag it away and chew it to pieces! He slammed the door and locked it again before returning to the bedroom.

He set down his weapon and, as he had earlier, lifted a cocooned Sherlock onto his lap. Sherlock started nervously when he felt himself being lifted and issued a small sound. 

“It’s alright,” John soothed, “I told you I would not be gone long. You did not believe me, sweeting?” John drew back the folds of the bag to look at Sherlock.

“I wanted to believe you, Aelfric! You said you would not leave me, but then something angered you. And I do not know why you would leave when… when…” The fear was back in Sherlock’s voice and he would not look at John.

“When you needed me?” John stoked his silken curls.

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. “And I do not know why I need you. I should not.” He sounded miserably confused.

John sighed and, surrendering to his feelings, bent his head to rest his cheek on Sherlock’s head. “I left to do something that I felt was necessary for your protection, leifling. Protecting you means more than just your physical safety. Your spiritual and emotional well-being are equally important and I want to guard them a vigilantly as I do your life. I want to spare you from experiencing any more of the horrors and evil in the world. Already you have seen more than anyone should ever see in one lifetime. I wish you to see no more.” John stoked Sherlock’s forehead. “Perhaps I was too impulsive, I should have explained first…” his voice held regret.

Sherlock shook his head and laid it against John’s chest. “Nō, I understand now, Aelfric.” he said softly.

At this trusting expression of forgiveness, John’s iron suit of armour, the heavy burden of the warrior−already weakened by the sweet ways of this lovely, other-worldly creature−cracked and fell away entirely. Holding Sherlock, he felt something brilliant and new burst forth from within; infinitely stronger than the leaden armour it replaced, burning through him with the power of a hundred suns. With a choked exclamation he bent his head toward the undeniable cause of it; the seemingly magical being he held in his arms. 

Pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s he inhaled his intoxicating scent; as light and fresh as morning dew on summer flowers! How exhilarating it was! After years of little other than the smell of fear, blood and scorched sand, Sherlock’s exquisite scent was like cool water to a man parched from thirst. Fierce need flooded John; his blood began to throb in his veins and his hands shake as he breathed Sherlock in. Powerful instinct got the better of him and he clasped Sherlock against him in an immobilizing grip.

How exquisite Sherlock’s soft, yielding skin felt! Scenting was not enough! John wanted to touch and taste! Without thought he began to press urgent, thirsty kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks and neck. Sherlock didn’t resist, he was seemingly caught up in a spell of his own, offering his exposed skin to John unreservedly. His submission was just as intoxicating as the taste of his skin to John, if not more so! John growled in fierce pleasure and doubled his efforts, trying to explore as much as he could of Sherlock while at the same time lingering on one sweet spot. He managed both at once; tracing with eager fingers the heated path left on Sherlock’s neck by his lips, marveling at the effect his touch was having on Sherlock, his skin so cool and smooth before John’s kisses yet so sensitive and heated after. 

Dear God, John wanted Sherlock! It would be easy to take him now! He would spend the rest of the night mastering this exquisite creature; uninterrupted hours tasting and possessing every inch of him, reveling in his liquid heat and helpless submission. He knew Sherlock would not resist him, every alpha instinct told him so. 

It was the picture of Sherlock clenched and writhing beneath him that triggered a wild alarm in John’s brain. He was losing control! He must stop before he actually committed the unforgivable betrayal of Sherlock’s trust that he was imagining!

So as excruciatingly painful as it was, with ruthless self-discipline, John drew himself to a shuddering halt; burying his face in Sherlock’s neck with a deep groan of frustration. It was agony to deny his desire! The raging frustration and the painfully engorged flesh that would take hours to subside were almost unbearable... but he knew as he held himself rigidly still that the pain he was feeling was nothing to the emotional hell that he would suffer if he hurt and shamed the innocent youth in his arms. He sighed heavily and allowed his fingers to do what his lips could not, to explore the curves of Sherlock’s mouth and brush across his sensitive upper lip. 

God above, what kind of a monster was he turning into!? He’d never contemplated forcing himself on a vulnerable omega in such a manner before! But he’d never wanted an omega as much as he wanted Sherlock either… 

“Ælfric?”

“Yes, Ælfscíene?”

“You need me as I need you?”

“My needs, heartsweet, are not anything that you should be worrying about; now, or ever for that matter. I have no right to expect you to meet the sort of needs that I have at this moment. No one does. Remember that always, leifling.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. 

“You know that I am not a child, do you not, Ælfric?”

“Perhaps not, but you are young nonetheless, myn déorling.” John smiled down at Sherlock’s serious expression. He touched a light finger against the side of Sherlock’s perfect, straight nose in an effort to lighten the mood. “Now, let us both try to sleep a little more. In the morning, I will tell you of my plans for you." He grinned, “And you will tell me if they suit you. Alright?”

Sherlock, after a few seconds of studying John’s determined expression, sighed and nodded his agreement. Relieved, John switched the light off and settled them both; wrapping his arms firmly around Sherlock in the sleeping bag once more. He knew he would be unable to sleep for the rest of the night, but he hoped that Sherlock would; he needed rest to heal his mind as well as his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> myn luflíc - my love


	9. Chapter 9

John must have dozed off close to dawn for his next awareness was of being startled awake by sharp rapping on the outer door of his quarters. 

“What the…?!” He pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the door and lunged for the rifle at the same time. Sherlock’s reaction was no less violent; he gave a squeak of terror and curled himself into a ball on the bed behind John.

“Shhh… luflíc, it’s alright, it’s alright …” John glanced back at him with a whisper, trying to reassure him at the same time as dealing with the intrusion.

But before he could respond to the knock, there was a shout from outside the door. “Watson, the Commandant wants to see you. In his office. ASAP.” It was the Aide de Camp’s voice.

“Yeah, alright, got it, thanks.” John called out, his eyes not leaving the motionless bundle that was Sherlock curled on the bed. 

John waited until he was sure the messenger had gone before he spoke to Sherlock again. “I’ll have to go, sweetheart," he whispered urgently, "If I don’t, base command may come here and I can't allow that to happen. That would be far worse than leaving you alone for a short while. Do you understand?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his breathing had taken on the ragged sound it had had the previous night. He was terrified. 

“þu you hlystest!” John insisted, “Listen to me. It will be alright, I promise. I’ll go and be back again very quickly. You will be safe for a short while alone; your scent is not strong now that you’re bathed and your heat has eased. The soldiers who captured you will have been sent into the field again; they are no longer in the camp. If anyone else knew of your existence they will likely think that you are… no longer here...” John trailed off, not wanting to frighten Sherlock more by what his words suggested. He leaned over the bed to gather Sherlock to him and pleaded, “I’m asking you to trust me, Sherlock. I want you to try to be calm and to stay here and wait for me. I will lock this door and the outer door behind me. No soldier will dare come in to my quarters after what happened to the one who tried it last night, I can guarantee that! Will you do as I ask, please?”

“Yése, Ælfric.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. 

“Good.” John squeezed Sherlock tightly for a moment. “Now I must go or someone will return here. I will be back very quickly, I promise.”

John drew back the folds of the sleeping bag. Sherlock’s luminous eyes opened when he felt John’s light touch on his cheek. He stared up unblinkingly at John, who held his gaze and promised softly, “I will be back, and when I am we’ll talk, alright? All of this will be over soon. No more fear and no more pain for you. Do you trust me?”

Sherlock nodded but his eyes filled with tears. John’s chest tightened and he bent swiftly to press a soft kiss at the corner of each eye. Then, unable to help it, he pressed his lips lightly on Sherlock’s, just a fleeting brush. “Ic déore þē,” he murmured before turning resolutely to leave the bedroom. 

He was knocking on the door of the Commandant’s office within a few short minutes; entering when he was bidden to do so. 

Lieutenant Colonel Reynolds hardly glanced up as John shut the door behind him. Busy with paperwork on his desk, he said, “Captain, I wanted to speak with you. Captain Moran has returned to his position as base surgeon; your services are no longer required. I’m sure it’s a relief for you to hear it,” He gave a humourless laugh.

John’s expression froze and his body went rigid. He exclaimed, “Moran is here, in the camp!? Since when!?” He was incredulous.

Reynolds looked up at him in surprise. “He came in an hour ago, on the supply flight. We need a resident surgeon and we can’t wait forever for headquarters to send us one. I’ve hired him on contract; a neat solution to my problems, Captain.”

“He’s a sadistic, bloody psychopath!”

His superior stilled and eyed John coldly.

“He can be controlled with the right incentives and he has valuable… skills,” he added the last word slowly. His expression hardened, “The questioning of captives for one. Not many have what it takes to do it, but it is necessary, I assure you, despite what headquarters may say.” 

John’s expression was pure horror. “Where is he now?!”

“On his way to settling into his old quarters I should think. I am moving you into barracks, Watson, for the remaining two days of your rotation.” He glanced at his watch. “The warrant officer will make the arrangements for your new accommodations. Dismissed!”

John acted with explosive energy. He whirled to thrust open the door and stride down the hall; his heart was pounding and his expression a mask of furious intent. By the time he reached the camp’s central compound he had started to run, drawing his pistol as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> þu you hlystest - listen to me  
> Ic déore þē - I adore you


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sadistic sexual violence (not against Sherlock or John). Hint; you probably won't care.

John reached the entrance of his tent in a few short seconds, halting silently alongside the door, taking up a stealth position with gun raised, listening – and scenting. If Moran was inside and near Sherlock, he was about to die. John’s focus had narrowed to one deadly objective; neutralize the threat to his omega.

Nothing! Even before he entered his tent John knew it was empty. He sniffed. Someone had been there in the short time he had been gone though; Moran… yes, and someone else… John shook his head in an involuntary reaction to the foul odour… it was the scent of the burly sergeant who had brought Sherlock to his tent the previous night. John growled. The brute’s presence explained how Sherlock could have been taken so quickly. Moran would have his spies in the camp. He could hardly carry out his nefarious activities without accomplices. Obviously the sergeant was one of them. 

Never mind that, it was irrelevant now. He would track their scent, they couldn’t have gotten far. He’d find them.

Although seconds were critical, John took the time to arm himself with more than his pistol before he set out after his targets. Once he had prepared himself for a full fight, should it come to that, he emerged from his tent into what was still an early morning although daylight was increasing rapidly. 

The central compound was empty and silent. Good, thought John with grim satisfaction; without others around and no breeze, tracking the small party would be that much easier. 

He focused on Sherlock, whose light sweet scent was faint, but as bright as a beacon for John in his already semi-bonded state. Once he had established the direction in which the party had taken, he assessed possible locations where Moran might be headed with Sherlock. Bunkers were the most obvious possibility; they were heavily fortified structures and almost sound-proof. Used to store ammunition, they were not frequented by base personnel on a regular basis. Some were even abandoned altogether when fighting moved on to different fronts. 

John had met Captain Moran briefly only once. Speculation about the man’s atrocious activities had been confirmed for John by a medical colleague who had inadvertently found herself treating a prisoner who, it turned out, had been in the custody of Moran before he had come into her care. John’s colleague had done the best she could for the severely abused patient and succeeded in securing his protected status going forward, but, even the hardened battle surgeon that she was, she had been deeply disturbed by the victim’s condition. 

The memory of this drove an unfamiliar stab of fear through John’s chest which, before he had control of it, had choked off his breath and clouded his vision. What if he wasn’t in time to stop what would surely happen to Sherlock? The sensation of fear was so unfamiliar that John faltered for a second. He hadn’t felt fear in years and momentarily he forgot how to deal with it. Don’t fight it, use it, he coached himself, channel it from the mind and into the limbs, into strength and speed…

He hadn’t had time to learn the complete layout of this particular base in the short time he’d been there but he knew that ammunition storage would be on its perimeter, so he headed outward, away from the centre of the camp with its barracks and service facilities. He had a scent to follow but he hoped to gain time by outrunning the trio. It was risky of course, if by shortcutting he made a wrong turn and missed them, he’d lose precious minutes, but although his emotional connection to Sherlock had brought mind-clouding fear for his omega’s safety it had also awakened a powerful protective instinct. It was a new source of information and he knew to trust it. 

He rounded a corner between two unused portables and saw ahead, as he’d guessed there might be, a large bunker, some distance away, backed by the barbed wire fence that encircled the base. It was on the other side of a broad expanse of dry grass which might once have served as an air strip. John paused only for a second before deciding to sprint over it. It was unlikely that Moran would suspect that John would follow them so quickly, if at all. He would assume John was on medical duty likely for several hours at least. 

The bunker was dark inside, little of the early sun made its way in, and it was silent too. At least, it was at first. As John stood motionless just inside the entrance, blinking in the darkness, gradually his other senses began to compensate for his lack of vision; especially his hearing. As his eyes and brain become accustomed to the lack of light, he began to sense distant sounds.

He pulled a weapon and began to pick his way slowly into the structure. The bunker wasn’t empty as he’d thought it might be. Pallets of crates were stacked up toward its high, rounded roof, providing enough of a cover to hide the small sound John’s boot made when he caught a stone in the darkness. He crept forward and before long he could hear distinct voices up ahead; harsh and querulous.

“Where is the omega!? What did you do with my prize, you lout?! You only get the seconds; whatever’s left over when I’m good and done with them, understand?”

“I did nothin’ with ’im! He’s in the room right where we put ‘im! Waitin’ for you while you get ready for ‘im, just like you said! I got the stuff ready for you, like always, but I didn’t go in there, I swear!”

“You’re lying! You had at him yourself already didn’t you!? While my back was turned! You decided to get a taste of him before me – like a filthy rutting boar! Didn’t you?” An infuriated snarl erupted from the Captain, almost unrecognizable in its aggression. “And I’m going to kill you for it, right after you tell me where you left him!”

“I don’t know nothin’! I swear it, Sir!” The burly sergeant’s voice altered in fear and took on a high-pitched whine.

“You are a liar! Tell me where his is and I won’t cut your balls off before I kill you!” 

“No, Sir! No, I’m not lyin’…!” The Sergeant’s voice choked to a halt.

Then John heard Moran say in a false croon, “Too late. I know how to deal with the likes of you! Open your trousers! Do it, or I’ll slice your throat open, now!”

“No, no, no, please no, please no, Sir please!” The man was now blubbering in fear.

“I said, do it!”

John heard the sounds of a slight struggle which ended with a sharp abbreviated cry followed by a scream so loud it rattled the galvanized metal walls and ceiling of the bunker. This was followed by agonized gasps and tortured choking from the Sergeant and what sounded like a derisive snort from Moran. 

John, hidden and motionless behind the pallets, heard more grunts and a heavy crash. The Sergeant, wild with rage and pain must have attacked and succeeded in unbalancing Moran and they both had fallen to the floor. He heard Moran curse in fury and seconds later a gunshot which almost deafened him, amplified as it was in the enclosed bunker. 

Then... silence. 

Moments later, “Filth!” It was Moran’s voice, grim with satisfaction and unnaturally loud in the now quiet room.


	11. Chapter 11

John was unmoved by the Sergeant’s death. It simply eliminated one of the obstacles to the safe rescue of Sherlock. He remained hidden, trying to reason out what might have happened to Sherlock in the short time that he had been left alone by the two men and where he might be. It was clear to John that despite Moran’s accusations of the Sergeant, neither of them knew where Sherlock was.

John's thoughts were interrupted by a hard laugh and the mutter of Moran talking to himself, “So the little omega thinks it can escape the attentions of its master does it? Good. I’m the one who will teach it a lesson in obedience it will never forget.”

John, hearing this, resisted the strong urge to round the pallet he was standing behind and fire a bullet through the other alpha’s head. Instead he waited for Moran to stride past him in the darkness. Unfortunately it was better for Moran to remain alive, for now. If John couldn’t find Sherlock immediately he’d need information − information that could be extracted from Moran… It did not cross John’s mind to follow the man, for he was certain that Moran, in the absence of other evidence, was going to the Sergeant’s quarters to see if Sherlock was there. Moran wasn’t as sure as he that the major hadn’t hidden Sherlock somewhere.

John waited a few seconds to ensure that Moran had truly gone before he moved. Moran’s odor was strong in the bunker, he was obviously aroused and anticipating taking an omega. His senses must have been dulled by arousal too, since he had failed to sense John's presence. A low growl sounded in John’s throat, uncontained fury at the thought of Moran with Sherlock. But he forced his mind back into focus. 

Something was puzzling John… that the dead Sergeant’s heavy scent should be fading made sense… but what of Sherlock’s? It had faded in a similar way, which was puzzling... If Sherlock had escaped somewhere − anywhere, his scent would have been discernably stronger or weaker in one area of the building or another, indicating the path of his movements… Why was there nothing? A cold sensation of dread overcame John; was Sherlock dead? Then he checked himself quickly, no, John would have known, surely, if Sherlock was no longer alive, instinct would have informed him of that. 

John stepped over the body of the sergeant lying in its growing pool of blood and red splattered trousers. Ignoring it, he looked around the room for doors and saw two. One, he discovered, led to a hallway and the other to a toilet. He chose the latter, entering the room and scanning it; issuing a furious hiss when his gaze fell on loops of black strapping and hand cuffs dangling from a water pipe in the corner of the room. 

Be careful he cautioned himself, anger can make one careless… 

After confirming that the washroom was empty, John bent to examine the dangling handcuffs. He was looking for a clue, anything that might point to where Sherlock had gone. The cuffs were tiny; small enough for a child... rage flared his gut again… what kind of monster owned such things?! But once more he schooled his thoughts; he would extract justice from Moran for his crimes, certainly, but not now. Later. At this moment John needed to think, not feel. 

Sherlock had been here and recently. His scent was present. But it led nowhere… it was as if he had evaporated into thin air…

The cuffs were still locked; John tried them and found they held fast. Again he was mystified, how was this possible? Moran wouldn’t have been as careless with his victim as to use cuffs too large to secure him. John turned his attention to the straps dangling below the cuffs; they too held fast, still tightly secured. 

He ran questioning fingers over the bonds and found them curiously wet. The floor was damp too. And why would that be, he wondered? He examined the pipe where they were attached for leaks or condensation. It was bone-dry with no signs of rust or peeling paint. 

Suddenly, thoughts tumbled into John’s head in a wild, random jumble… Simarine body composition… extremely high in water, more so than other races – necessary for their near continuous immersion in water… and the Simarine, swimmers of extraordinary ability, facilitated, in part, by unusually flexible joints, not unlike otters and other water dwelling mammals… 

It seemed incredible but, had Sherlock been able, somehow, to voluntarily expire enough water from his tissues to reduce the circumference of his wrists and hands and, aided by his unique joint flexibility, slip out of his restraints?

John considered the scenario. It was certainly possible. And if his tissues dried out enough, Sherlock’s scent would diminish greatly, if not disappear; making his trail impossible to follow… this would explain his almost vanished scent. With the unerring certainty of an alpha in tune with its omega, mind and body, John knew he had arrived at the truth. It had been an ingenious escape strategy and John felt pride at its brilliance. But alarm followed rapidly on the heels of admiration; it was a life threatening maneuver for Sherlock; dehydration to the extent required to contract his tissues would kill him within a few hours, perhaps sooner in his already weakened condition. The longer Sherlock remained without fluids the less likely it would be that John could revive him. He must find him quickly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another short chapter but I promise a nice long chapter for you patient readers at the beginning of next week!  
> Thank you so much for liking Night Song. Readers are everything.

John conducted a careful examination of the room for anything that might indicate where Sherlock had gone after he’d escaped his bonds. He found nothing related to Sherlock, but to his further disgust and anger he found evidence that others had been in the room before Sherlock. There were numerous spots of dried blood, for although the walls and floor had been cleaned, faint reddish stains were still visible. There were two metal rings in the floor and fragments of rope, overlooked during cleaning, in the corners of the room under the sinks. On another wall near the floor he found scratch marks where perhaps a captive had tried to inscribe letters or a word. Sick to his stomach; he knew without a doubt that he was in a chamber of unspeakable horrors; a sadistic psychopath’s private playroom.

He shook his head as if to try to shake off the mantle of evil over the room. This particular monster’s reign was over. With John’s discovery Moran’s world had come to an end. It was a matter of hours if not minutes now.

But he had to find Sherlock! Without evidence John was at a loss. If only he could call him! If they were mated it would be as natural as breathing to communicate by mind alone, but they weren’t, and Sherlock was young and inexperienced; he wouldn’t know of such things. He wouldn’t hear John calling to him…

Desperately, John tried to come up with an alternate strategy… Sherlock couldn’t hear him but perhaps the other way around might work? Sherlock trusted him as a protector, he might be thinking of him now, enough for John to sense him… and Sherlock couldn’t be far away, he hadn’t had time to go any distance; proximity would help.

John closed his eyes and emptied his mind. He strained, listening with all his heart.

Silence.

In despair, he tried calling, _Ælfscíene! I have come for you. I am here to protect you. Níedhelp, small one!_

Long seconds passed. He’d almost given up all hope when he became aware of something… something not quite an answer to his call… not a response, something different−fainter and weaker…

It was an echo!

_Why do you not let me die, Ælfric? I am a danger to you._

John’s eyes flew open. Sherlock’s words of the night before… they had been spoken in a whisper then and now they were even softer, but he sensed them overwhelmingly.

_…let me die, Ælfric._

“No!” John blurted out in the empty room. “No!”

Dear God, he realized, Sherlock hadn’t run away! He wasn’t trying to escape; instead he had chosen to die – but on his own terms, with peace and dignity. He had hidden himself to do so, but he was close, very close.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the long chapter I promised. But next week's is the longer one. To be posted on Tuesday Dec 27.

John swung around and left the washroom. Sherlock wasn’t far away; John was certain of it, his hiding place would be needed only for a short time, just long enough for him to pass beyond the reach of his tormentors before they found him.

Out in the open interior of the bunker, with his tactical flashlight in one hand and baton in the other, methodically, John began breaking the latches and throwing the lids off of the ammunition crates. The first line of crates yielded nothing; they were either full of weapons or empty. Growing increasingly desperate, John began on the second row.

It was in a container near the end of the second row that he found Sherlock at last; curled up on the bottom of the container and motionless. He was naked and bloodied; bright streaks of red glistened against the whiteness of his skin in the beam of John’s torch. He held against him the torn remnants of John’s T-shirt; the one he'd been wearing when he was abducted.

At the sight of his slight form, so still and pale, an anguished roar erupted from John. Please not dead! Merciful God, please! He wrenched the wooden slats of the crate apart, desperation lending him strength and lifted Sherlock into his arms.

_Fragile and light, like a solitary leaf, falling from a tree, lost to the sun and the breeze…_

But no! Weak pulse, shallow breaths… Not dead!

Thank you God! Thank you, Eallwealdend and my beloved ealdmóder, thank you.

John, clutching Sherlock to him, brought the beam of his torch up to Sherlock’s face to assess his condition. His pallor was frightening but in the glare of the torch John was able to detect the slight movement of his lips as he formed silent words.

“Not today, Ælfscíene, your time is not today. You must come back to me now. ” He bent his head to whisper this against Sherlock’s ear.

The bright light shining in his face alerted Sherlock and he began to regain consciousness. His murmuring became audible for a moment before he stopped his recitation and his eyes flickered open. John smoothed the tangled curls back from his forehead with a shaking hand and smiled down at him, anticipating recognition in Sherlock’s expression and a happy relief to match his own.

To John’s startlement however, Sherlock’s delicate features twisted in distress and he recoiled away from John’s touch. John knew better; of course Sherlock’s first thought would be that he had been recaptured by his abductors, but it was more than John could take. Before he knew what was happening he was consumed by a blaze of fierce possessiveness; he tried to supress it but Sherlock’s rejection and the wildly provoking scent of rival alphas on his omega’s body were too much. Despite himself he began almost shaking Sherlock and, in a harsh voice he didn’t recognize as his own, demanding, “Why?! What happened?! What did they do to you?!”

Utterly out of control within seconds, he didn’t wait for an answer. He tore the T-shirt away from Sherlock to expose the whiteness of his belly and genitals to the torchlight. Sherlock appeared untouched but to John, maddened by aggressive alpha instinct and tortured with unfamiliar emotions, even this action wasn’t enough to reassure him that Sherlock hadn’t been violated by the other alphas. He could not scent Sherlock; all he could smell was the odour of his rivals on Sherlock’s skin and it was driving him wild. He snarled and pushed Sherlock’s slender thighs apart to see for himself what, if anything, had been done to his omega. Spiraling into madness completely, he even had the wild idea of claiming Sherlock as his own, right then and there. A remote part of his mind tried to protest, horrified by his sexual aggressiveness, but it wasn’t strong enough to stop him.

What did stop him was Sherlock himself; instead of cringing away in fear as John might have expected at his assault, Sherlock did the opposite. It had taken a few seconds but the sensation of John’s firm hands, the sound of his snarling vocalizations and his uniquely powerful alpha scent brought recognition back Sherlock. He sighed, relaxed and offered himself up to John; for although he was still only half conscious, he knew that his alpha had come for him and he welcomed John’s attentions in whatever form they may take.

Nothing could have calmed John faster than this perfectly trusting response. He stopped short, dragged in a ragged breath and lowered his forehead to Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry, myn déorling!” he exclaimed, almost tearfully. “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to… I’ve been so afraid…”

Sherlock didn’t respond in words but he tried to flatten himself against John’s chest and closed his eyes once more.

John, back in control of himself, wrapped the T-shirt around Sherlock snuggly and held him close, “We are leaving this terrible place now, luflíc,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.


	14. Chapter 14

John flicked off the torch and waited the few seconds required for his eyes to adjust to the darkness again. He judged that Moran would be returning at any moment and he didn’t intend to be caught by surprise, nor did he wish to engage him unless there was no other option. Sherlock needed rehydrating as soon as possible and John did not want to waste time on Moran if he could avoid it. Moran would be dealt with once Sherlock was out of danger. 

John picked their way back to the entrance following the same path he’d used to enter the bunker. This time he had the light of the open door with which to orient himself, so the going was faster. He was almost out of the building, just feet from the entrance, when he sensed and heard Moran’s return. He hissed a string of oaths under his breath and flattened himself quickly against the wall just inside the bunker's wide entrance; Sherlock held securely with one arm and his drawn pistol in the other. 

Moran, having found nothing in the sergeant’s quarters was now alert to the possibility of an interloper having stolen Sherlock, and both scented and heard John at the same time. He pulled his gun and halted abruptly, trying to discern their exact location in the bunker. After several seconds, he took a few stealthy steps closer. He likely believed he had the advantage of surprise on his side and he was eager to recapture Sherlock. 

As much as he would have enjoyed a game of cat and mouse with Moran, there was no doubt in John’s mind who would win it, the risk was too great to Sherlock. The threat of Moran needed to be eliminated. And quickly. So, John pulled his torch from his belt and tossed it into the dark interior of the bunker, not far away, Moran knew they were near and wouldn’t be fooled if it landed any more than a few feet from them. 

Moran went for the ruse. And he was a good shot, firing low to the ground exactly where the torch had landed, no doubt wanting to ensure that Sherlock stayed alive while disabling his challenger enough to be an easy kill once Sherlock was recaptured. But in doing so he took a small step forward; just enough to cause a sliver of his shadow to become visible in the entrance of the bunker. John, smooth and exacting, aimed his pistol at where he judged Moran to be standing outside, for he wasn’t visible, and fired through the galvanized steel of the bunker. His bullet found home; Moran fell with a shriek, sprawling across the open doorway. He struggled to rise, swearing viciously and writhing in agony before finally stilling. John watched dispassionately as Moran’s jerky movements slowed to a stop. 

It hadn’t been a great shot John chided himself. He’d aimed for the man’s heart, or where he’d estimated it to be, and instead had hit had him in the shoulder, severing a subclavian artery. John gave a slight shrug. Apparently, Moran was shorter than he’d remembered.

Sherlock roused briefly at the gun shots, which were painfully loud to his sensitive ears, but subsided again at a reassuring rumble from John and when he felt John’s other arm join the first already wrapped tightly around him. His pistol re-holstered, John wasted no more time. He stepped over Moran’s body and into the glaring sunlight. Squinting fiercely he headed straight for the hospital. 

At the pace John moved, it was a short journey. He strode into the triage centre, grabbed a handful of towels and linens from a storage cupboard there and placed them over Sherlock. He nodded briefly at the two nurses on duty, who barely glanced up at him, and went directly into the showers. Here, dropping the towels and sheets on a bench, he turned the nearest shower on fully and, still holding Sherlock, stepped into the stream of water, clothes, weapons, boots and all. 

He didn’t touch Sherlock immediately; he simply sat on the stall’s hard bench, angling his shoulder to take the brunt of the spray. Sherlock’s skin was too fragile in his dehydrated state to withstand anything but the mist from the deflected water and the light steam encompassing them. John sat motionless and observed Sherlock’s face closely, looking for the first sign that he might be beginning to recover. It took several anxious minutes but finally he began to see a hint of colour in Sherlock’s cheeks and the gradual return of the sheen on his skin which he’d observed with such wonder the previous night. 

Satisfied Sherlock was recovering, John, wanting to examine him for injury, began to tug gently at the dirty T-shirt which Sherlock was still clutching. He had an idea that Sherlock might like to feel the water directly on his skin now that he was stronger and to do so might help to revive him faster; he was still limp and unresponsive despite the improvement in his hydration. But as John attempted to pull the shirt from Sherlock’s fingers, Sherlock suddenly tightened his hold on it and tried to wrench himself from John’s grasp with a sharp cry of “Nō!” and a sob of anguish. His movements were so violent that John almost lost his grip on him and he nearly tumbled to the hard floor of the shower. John cursed his thoughtlessness; of course the flow of water would dull their ability to scent one another. Sherlock could no longer sense him and in his dazed state he almost certainly thought he was back in the cruel hands of his captors. 

John reached up and turned the water off. He held Sherlock tightly and spoke into his ear firmly. 

“Hush! Stop now.” He rocked Sherlock back and forth. “He’s dead. I killed him. They are both dead.” Cold satisfaction resonated in John's voice and in the expression on his face. “You have nothing to be afraid of now. You are safe. They can never touch you again.” 

But Sherlock, confused, was uncomforted. He continued to tremble and whimper, frightened beyond all reason. 

When Sherlock did not obey him, John lowered his head to growl quietly against Sherlock’s ear and nip his neck lightly in disapproval. The reprimand was effective. Sherlock, surprised, quieted immediately in his arms. His eyes flew open and for the first time since his abduction he looked up at John with full awareness.

John, experiencing a heart stopping moment of pure joy and relief at seeing the blue shimmer of Sherlock’s eyes, smiled down at him. “That’s better, leifling. It is my duty to vanquish your fears. You must allow me to fulfill it.” He smoothed away the droplets of water falling from his own forehead onto Sherlock’s with a light finger. Sherlock looked as though he wanted to respond to John but, although it opened, no sound emerged from his mouth. He stared up at John with huge eyes. 

“You feel well again, just frightened, not ill?” John questioned gently.

At Sherlock’s silent nod, John, satisfied, said, “Good. Then let’s get you dressed, shall we?” He stood up, his hair glistening with water and his T-shirt plastered to his solid chest. His heavy boots made wet, squelching sounds and water streamed onto the tile floor as he stepped across the room to lock the outer door. Turning to his locker, with his free arm he pulled T-shirts, trousers and pants out and dropped them onto the bench beside the towels. 

He attended to Sherlock first, beginning with another attempt to remove the torn T-shirt from Sherlock’s grip. When Sherlock let it go, John bent and offered him a kiss on the palm of his hand in exchange for it and teased lightly, “There are plenty more T-shirts where this one came from leifling, in fact a lifelong supply of them if you like.”

John's playful tone died though, when, the T-shirt finally stripped away, he could see up close for the first time new marks on Sherlock’s arms and legs; red welts and bruises from the leather strapping with which he’d been restrained. John’s eyes darkened and a growl rumbled in his throat. He examined the marks, thankful, but no less angry, when they proved to be superficial. If Moran and the despicable Sergeant weren't already dead it would have been a pleasure to kill them both once more!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is possible for a bullet from a pistol to pierce steel. It depends on the gun, the bullet, the angle of the shot and the thickness of the steel, but it is possible. I imagine John to be armed with something pretty powerful and we know he’s an incredible shot. :-)


	15. Chapter 15

John blotted Sherlock’s skin dry with a towel and fashioned, out of a small single sheet, an approximation of the robe Sherlock had been wearing when he was first captured and brought to John’s quarters. He draped it Grecian style around Sherlock, marveling again at his youthful beauty as he did so. Sherlock’s hair was forming a halo of loose curls around his head as it dried and his skin, hydrated once more, had regained its pearl-like sheen. John found it impossible to resist touching him as he dressed him; Sherlock’s silken skin and soft locks were in such sharp contrast to John’s own weathered complexion and serviceable haircut.

When Sherlock had been cared for John stripped off his own wet things and dressed in dry clothes as well. He could feel Sherlock’s curious gaze upon him as he undressed and he hid a small smile. He wasn’t a vain man; he rarely gave any thought to his appearance but he had to admit to himself that he was experiencing immense enjoyment at Sherlock’s innocent interest in his body. 

When they were both dry and dressed, John moved them to an unused operating theatre where he could seat Sherlock on a gurney and re-bandage the cut over his eye and his injured ankle. Sherlock followed John’s practised movements with clearly absorbed fascination. 

John, very aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him, chuckled as he trimmed a wound dressing with surgical scissors, “Keep that up, luflíc and you’ll find I no longer remember how to apply the simplest bandage. Your eyes have the effect of making me forget even my own name, beautiful one.”

Sherlock blushed and lowered his gaze.

“And now, without your eyes upon me, I am devastated.” John put out a hand to drew Sherlock’s chin up and smiled into his eyes, “I was teasing you, my love. I’m learning that I’m conceited enough to like being the centre of your attention, I hope that you will always look at me the way you are now.”

Sherlock’s blush deepened, but he brought his long fingers up to touch John’s cheek. He whispered, “I cannot seem to help it, Ælfric.”

John’s smile widened but he resolutely turned his focus back to tending Sherlock’s injuries.

When he was satisfied that Sherlock’s physical condition was good, John seated himself beside him and drew him into his arms. He felt Sherlock melt against him and lowered his head to Sherlock’s. He dusted kisses to the spot on Sherlock’s neck where he’d pressed his teeth earlier, soothing the pinkish mark with his lips. “Are you paying attention, leifling?” he questioned. 

Sherlock, in the midst of arching his neck to meet John’s lips, nodded quickly. 

“Good,” John’s kisses continued, roving over the exposed paleness of Sherlock’s neck, not admonishing as they had been in the shower, but rather wooing and seductive. He kissed with deliberate intent until he felt Sherlock’s pulse quicken and saw a faint flush appearing wherever his lips touched. With a satisfied sound, he lifted his head to say, “We are leaving this place now, within the hour, on the outgoing supply flight. I am requesting an immediate discharge from the army. I am retiring and asking you to come with me to my home in Rheged. It is far from these hot deserts; in a land of lakes and hills. I feel it would suit you well.”

His intention stated, he turned Sherlock’s face to his with insistent fingers and sought his eyes. “I want you as my mate.” And then, as it was a formal proposal, he bowed his head before Sherlock, as was proper under the circumstances, and recited the unity vow, “Ic gewedde þē, I pledge myself to you.” Then, overcome with emotion, he whispered, “Ic déore þē, myn déorling.” He looked down into Sherlock’s beautiful eyes and waited to let the seriousness of his proposal sink in.

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately; he simply stared up at John unblinkingly. 

“If you object leifling, please do so now.” John’s expression was sober. “But before you answer me, know this; if you do not want as I do, of course you have the freedom to go anywhere you wish to; I will escort you to wherever that may be, to ensure your safety, ic ámundae þē, if you will allow me to do so.” 

He bent to brush his lips over Sherlock’s small ear. “So, what is your decision, Ælfscíene? Will you allow me to do as I want, to love and care for you as my mate for the rest of our lives?”

To John’s dismay, Sherlock’s eyes, which had begun to glow with interest at his proposal suddenly filled with tears and his lips began to quiver. John drew back and exclaimed in horror, “No heartsweet! What did I say? It is too soon, isn’t it? I’m moving too fast...! And God knows I’m too old for you…!”

Sherlock gulped and shook his head vigorously. “Nō, Ælfric, I was happy until…until…” 

John was beside himself, “Forgive me, leifling! I never want to make you unhappy, nǣfre!”

“Then why will you not go with me into the next world, the world beyond this one when our time here is over? Why will our mating end? I do not want to be without you. Do you not mate forever, Ælfric?” Sherlock’s eyes were tragic.

John grappled with his mistake. “No! Yes! I mean that is not what I meant! I do want you forever, make no mistake about that! I will go with you anywhere and for always, to all the worlds that exist!” He kissed a tear from Sherlock’s cheek. “Is that what you want? Are you certain?”

“Yése, myn Ælfward.” Sherlock, comforted, lifted his face to press a quick, soft kiss on John’s lips and burrowed close, rubbing his cheek against John’s chest and closing his eyes in pleasure. 

This action, along with his contented acceptance of John’s desire to be his alpha, triggered a new firestorm of physical sensations and emotions in John. His body and heart got the better of him once more and despite his intention to be restrained, he lowered his head abruptly and gripping Sherlock’s jaw with a firm hand, settled his lips on Sherlock’s in a demanding open-mouthed kiss. It was a kiss that, if he was to be honest with himself, he had desired from the moment Sherlock had opened his extraordinary eyes and gazed up at him in the dimness of his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ælfward = Elf Guardian


End file.
